Pretty Vacant
by Isoscelies
Summary: There is no pretending," Jace said with absolute clarity. "I love you, and I will love you until I die, and if there's a life after that, I'll love you then." He kept his word. He was Jace Lightwood--he always kept his word.


Pretty Vacant

**Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns The Mortal Instruments and The Mortal Instruments characters. The lyrics used in this FanFiction belong to The Sex Pistols. The plot interpretation belongs to goode4evr. **

**A/N: So, this is just a random little drabble I decided I'd do, inspired by the song "Pretty Vacant" by The Sex Pistols when I was listening to it on my iPod. Listen to the song, it really is good. For now, I really don't have a full-out FF planned out, so for the while I'll just be doing little song-inspired one-shots. **

**Note: This is angsty, just a warning. There really isn't much fluff in the story. Please, no flaming, but I just **_**really **_**needed to write some angst because, right now, I'm obsessed with finding as much angsty FanFictions on here as possible. Review! **

~ * ~

"_And I'm supposed to sit by while you date other boys, fall in love with someone else, get married…?" His voice tightened. "And meanwhile, I'll die a little bit more every day, watching." _

~*~

_There's no point in asking,_

_You'll get no reply, _

He didn't feel good. His face was pale and gaunt, shadows splayed out beneath his sharp cheekbones, bags of dark purple underneath his eyes. His stomach was in knots, constantly twisting and turning. His legs felt wobbly and weak, as though they'd give out on him any second. His throat was dry and raspy, his voice a hoarse croaking noise now. He hadn't spoken since that day—that day, nearly a month ago. Was she really that determined that stray _that _far away from him? To just…just _run off _as soon as she could? Ever since _she _had come along, he felt new and whole, young and free—the way a young man his age should have felt. Now, it hurt to think that all of that was going away.

What hurt the most, though, was that he could feel the change in his chest. He couldn't feel happiness, it seemed: the only thing he could feel now was the dull pulsing of his hollow, numbed and _worthless _heart.

_Oh, just remember, _

_I don't decide_

She'd come to him that day, smiling brightly and giggling, twirling her hair and practically skipping towards him. He'd smiled back at her, a real, genuine smile, happy to see that she'd come alone. That day, she was dressed in a sundress—she looked so young, so pretty, alive and vitalized. He'd been smiling and laughing with her, whole-heartedly, until she told him the news.

"_I hope you're okay with this," _she'd told him, reaching out to touch his face. He could feel the blood drain from his face, the burning pain that had shot through his body when she'd said those three words to him. _Three words_. That's all it took to eternally _break _Jace Lightwood.

At that point, he remembered how she was smiling so, happy and giddy—excited. Only for her, he forced a smile onto his face and nodded, biting his lip and forcing out an estranged laugh. _That's great. _He only said two words, but that was enough to make her laugh, to throw her pale arms around his neck and look him in the eye, smiling happily. What was he going to say to her? _No, I'm not okay with this? _It wasn't like his opinion truly mattered—it wasn't his decision.

_I got no reason, it's all too much_

_You'll always find us out to lunch_

He walked home that night, alone. He knew that everyone would be worried sick about him, but not her. No, she'd probably be sound asleep, dreaming about him with a smile on her face, mumbling his name. He didn't have a reason to smile anymore, the numbness was too much for him to handle. _Never _in his life had he felt so empty—so alone and emotionless, so cold.

He didn't just feel cold on the inside—outside, too. The early summer breeze that blew across his face was so cold it hurt. His insides were cold, numbing with the pain that had long since gone away. He wanted to stop and squeeze his eyes shut, to make his vision clear and normal. Instead, it was foggy and hazy, glazed over with tears. Maybe it was just his life, and God didn't like him. Maybe it was because he loved to kill—_demons, _that is. Maybe it was because he enjoyed hearing Jonathan's pained screams when he'd sunk that blade into that demon's back. Maybe he was just an evil, disgusting person that was considered filth…maybe he _was _demon himself.

He stopped spending time at the Institute when she was there with him, everyone gathered around and laughing and smiling. They were holding each other, Alec and Magnus were cuddled up on the couch, and Isabelle and Simon gazed lovingly at each other, stealing small, peppery kisses when they thought no one was looking. Who knew—maybe they didn't give a damn if anyone was looking, and their timing just seemed right. He stood there, awkwardly, before ideas just kept on popping up in his head.

_I have a date, I have to go hunting, I'm going to go and pick us up some lunch, she wants to go out tonight, I'm taking her to this gourmet place a few hours away—I have to leave early, I think I heard Maryse call me earlier, Church needs some real food, I'll make dinner tonight, Let me go get changed first, I wanted to clean my blades before the next hunt, I'll be in the weapons room, I'm going for a walk—Isabelle's cooking gave me a headache, I'm sorry—I've got plans tonight, maybe some other time—_

The list of excuses went on and on, and still, nobody questioned it. Nobody questioned him. Because they all knew. Except _them_.

_Oh, we're so pretty,_

_Oh so pretty,_

_We're vacant,_

_Oh, we're so pretty, _

_Oh, so pretty,_

_Vacant _

As he lifted his head up to stare at himself in the mirror, he narrowed his eyes and remembered how she always used to say how beautiful and fierce they were. They were cold and empty. She always used to say how she couldn't believe how such a beautiful boy like him loved such a Plain Jane girl like her. She wasn't "Plain Jane" at all, he believed. She was beautiful.

The first time they'd danced in Alicante at the Accords, she fiddled with her fingers and chewed on her lip, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He could see those green irises shift over to him when she thought he wasn't looking, but he kept quiet, as she already looked embarrassed enough. There were people lining up to speak with the boy who'd defeated the demon-boy of Valentine, the boy who nearly died doing as he fought him, and to chat with the girl who'd summoned the angel and eternally destroy the biggest monster that plagued Idris and the world of the Shadowhunters. The two heroes of the land. The saviors of the Nephilim. The happy couple. The beautiful, happy, golden, cherished couple.

The eternally bound, loving, beautiful, _happy, golden _couple.

_Don't ask us to attend,_

'_Cause we're not all there_

Usually, as he looked at his tired eyes, he would have seen the anger seep through them, but there was nothing. She had the _nerve _to ask that he come, that she would be looking for him in the crowd. He'd told her yes, he couldn't say no, and everyone else had already excitedly said yes. The women were busy shopping, and the men were busy congratulating him. He was Jace Lightwood—he always kept his word, no matter how he felt. Plus, he couldn't lie to her. Not to her. Never to her.

He glanced at his unmade bed and the clothes that hung limply off the side of the bed: black dress pants, a dark blue dress shirt with tiny white strips running down it vertically, a pair of black, polished dress shoes, and his watch thrown carelessly over the shirt. It was a very dark apparel, not exactly appropriate for the occasion, but at least he was there. Well, his body was—maybe not his mind and soul. His heart certainly wasn't there.

_Oh, don't pretend 'cause I don't care,_

_I don't believe illusions 'cause too much _

_Is real_

As he slid into his pants and buckled his belt, he thought about all those times he'd seen her _after _she'd told him. She was always smiling and laughing at his unfunny jokes or lame attempts to make it seem like he was alright. His humor had become dry and more crude and hurtful than sarcastic and annoying, yet, she still laughed. Even if she was the only one in the room who laughed, and even he would give her a strange look. Eventually, he caught on. She was pretending that everything was alright—that everything was normal and nothing was awkward. It wasn't normal. He knew then, at that moment when he realized why she was laughing, glancing around the room and giving him a grin: She knew. Oh, God, she knew. She knew he was hurt, in pain, and not over the storm. The hurricane had passed, and yet, he was still grieving for everything to be normal again—for the wreckage to be fixed and clean again. It would take years to rebuild that ruined city, and it would take years to rebuild himself.

She could laugh and try and make everything better all she wanted, but he still knew. He knew she was just trying to make things right again, and he could see it in her eyes, how uncomfortable she felt when it was just the two of them. He wouldn't believe her when she said that everything was _okay_.

_So stop your cheap comment, _

_Cause we know what we feel_

"Are you okay?" "Do you want to talk about it?" "You sure you're up to this?" "You're okay now." "Oh, she looks cute. How about you go and talk to _her_?"

Everyone had something to say—everyone had some sad smile to throw in his direction. They all said how proud of him they were, that he'd gotten over the storm and was doing okay. As he buttoned up his shirt—leaving the first two undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—Jace recalled all the comments he'd heart in the past few months.

"Are you sure…?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I just thought…?"

He'd always just look at them with narrowed eyes, slits of tawny. "Yeah, I'm sure." But he knew how he felt inside. _They _knew what he felt inside.

_Oh, we're so pretty_

_Oh so pretty,_

_Ah, but now_

As he stood there, next to the aisle and Isabelle, he focused on the organ music that slowly began, watched as the giant oak doors opened and people—he guessed were the bridesmaids and flower girls—passed by in blurs, but everything from then on went by in slow motion.

There she was, grinning, her arm gently looped through Luke's as she walked down the aisle slowly. Her eyes were focused on _him_—only him. Always him. She looked beautiful: the long white wedding gown reminded Jace of Cinderella's ball gown, her orangey hair twisted atop her head in a tight bun, a few curls falling to the sides of her face. She was so fresh-looking, light and summery, and there he was, forcing on a smile.

For a second, only a second, her eyes landed on Jace, and he suddenly imagined her coming down the aisle towards _him_, not the man standing at the alter. Then she flashed him a quick smile, and her eyes landed on _him _again, and she grinned wider. Angelically. Beautifully.

_And we don't care_

He didn't care to listen to the priest up at the front, didn't listen as they exchanged their vows—his eyes never stayed away from her. From Clary. Not her. Never her.

_We're pretty, pretty vacant _

_We don't care _

As they inched their faces closer together, Jace felt his heart sink, deep into his chest, but his eyes never left his Clary. Not _his _Clary. Just Clary. As their eyes fluttered shut and their lips finally touched, Jace watched as one of Clary's green eyes slid slightly open and landed on him, and he stared back, and he shut his eyes, relishing in what it would have been like if it was _his _lips pressed to Clary's, but when he opened his eyes again, Clary's eyes were shut, and they pulled away, grinning.

As she and her new husband scurried down the aisle, he thought how much of a joke his life way. She loved the _mundane_. She loved _him_. He couldn't _have _her. Not her. _Never her. _

And he didn't care.

He loved her.

"_There is no pretending," Jace said with absolute clarity. "I love you, and I will love you until I die, and if there's a life after that, I'll love you then." _

He kept his word. He was Jace Lightwood—he _always _kept his word.

**A/N: I love angsty stories—and angsty Jace, for some reason. So, I LOVE Jace and Clary, and I support that relationship **_**so much**_**, it isn't even funny. The book was **_**expensive**_**, so that's the only reason why I didn't throw it across the room when I read that they were "siblings." **

**So, no I didn't write this because I don't like the whole J&C relationship, because I love them (we need a couple name for J&C…), but I was inspired by the quotes in City of Glass, page 331, In The Dark Forest. **

**REVIEW PEOPLE! (The next fic will **_**not be angsty**_**. It may just get FLUFFY and **_**happy!) **_

**This thing is NOT beta'd, so if you could **_**not **_**comment on the stupid grammar and mistake stuff, that'd be **_**great**_**. Betas…**

**I need a beta. And I have **_**someone **_**in mind. **


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